


Brazen

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 04, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John visits Harold at his office in between lectures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brazen

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: John visiting Harold at his office in between lectures, getting on his knees and jerking off right in front of him but not allowing him to touch.

“Shhh, don’t talk,” John said, barging into Harold Whistler’s office and shutting the door behind him. He hastily rattled closed all the blinds too, locked the door. Paused, looked around, and jammed a chair in front of it for good measure.

 

“John, what’s the matter?” Harold startled, sure that Reese’s behavior would attract unwanted attention from Whistler’s nosy colleagues. They were already asking pointed questions about the number of non-students he played host to during office hours. And then he feared the worst. “Did Samaritan find us?”

 

John shook his head. “No. Everything’s fine. Please don’t ask any more questions. I've only got ten minutes, no time to explain.”

 

Harold’s mouth hung open, as he fought the urge to ask several questions at once. John took advantage of this, dashing around the desk until he could lean down and meet Harold’s lips with his own. For all the kiss was clumsy and unexpected, it was passionate, John putting his all into it so that Harold was disinclined to do anything other than melt under it. Reese hadn't kissed him for _weeks_ , not since he’d opened Harold’s shirt back at the library and seen to his shoulder wound, apologizing fervently for not rescuing Harold sooner. He’d since acceded to Harold’s suggestion that they put the more personal side of their relationship on hold until a more appropriate time, but it seemed John wasn't willing to wait forever, and if he were being honest, Harold was very glad about that. He lifted a hand to John’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

 

As they kissed, John sank to his knees beside Harold’s chair. “Have you got another class this afternoon?”

 

Harold hummed an affirmative, distractedly. He was busy running his hand through John’s hair. He didn't see what lectures had to do with anything.

 

John nuzzled at his chin and then backed off, shuffling away on his knees. “Just watch, then.”

 

Harold lost his breath, felt his dick stir as he caught the implication. “John -”

 

“I don’t want to mess up your suit.” John sounded regretful, but determined. The heated gaze he sent Harold’s way did nothing to prevent this eventuality.

 

“I may not have much choice in the matter,” Harold shot back, voice quavering. He ought to tell John to stop, save this for another time, but John’s belt and fly were already undone, his underwear bulging obscenely. Harold let himself stay glued to his chair, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Maybe he was dreaming. He was missing John, and his subconscious was throwing him a very large hint. Harold pinched the back of his own hand. It hurt. He did not wake up in Whistler’s awful apartment or - it would have been vastly preferable - the library.

 

John was emptying his trouser pockets, making himself comfortable. His badge, keys, gun, spread out on Harold’s floor. He took off his suit jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves. He flipped open his wallet one-handed and drew out a little packet of lube, groaning slightly as he slicked his length.

 

Harold shushed him, automatically. He listened for movement in the corridor. The physics professor who occupied the office opposite Whistler’s was out at a symposium today, thankfully. Harold forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly.

 

John leaned forward, supporting his weight on one long arm, fingers of his left hand splayed wide, palm flat to the ground. His right hand jacked his cock, tightly. Harold observed his lowered eyelashes, the concentration on his face. He’d trapped his own lip with his teeth and Harold wanted to tell him to release it, lest he draw blood.

 

“I like when I can feel your eyes on me,” John said, in the softest of whispers.

 

Harold shuddered. He was _not_ going to touch himself, match John stroke for stroke. He put his wrists on the arms of the chair, drove his fingernails into his palms.

 

When Harold didn't reply, John smirked up at him, rocking his hips forward into his shifting grip. “Have I stunned you into silence, Professor?”

 

“ _Yes,_ ” Harold croaked.

 

John looked very pleased with himself. Harold was momentarily worried for the seams of John’s pants, the way they strained, pulled taut over his inner thighs, as John jerked and rutted, on his knees for him. Harold wanted to join him on the floor, replace John’s hand with his own mouth, take John’s balls in hand and _squeeze_ them, for daring to be so brazen as this. It wasn't _fair_. They couldn't afford distractions, with their lives so fundamentally on the line, but John had never liked playing by the rules, not even Harold’s. John disliked his new cover identity and was acting out any way he could, and there was not a damn thing Harold could do about it but _watch_ as John’s cock drove back and forth through the tight circle of his grip.

 

John was beginning to lose his rhythm. Without looking away from the spectacle, Harold coldly reached for the box of tissues on his desk and dropped them on the floor next to John, ready. John laughed - it was little more than a heavier, jagged exhalation through his nose, between one puff of air and the next. He paused briefly, shifted his weight back onto his knees instead of his arm, so that he could reach out with his free hand and touch his fingertips ever so lightly to the top of Harold’s shoelaces. He came like that, tucking his face into his right shoulder to muffle his cry.

 

Harold resolutely did not come in his pants, but it was a close thing.

 

John sank back on his heels, sighing, his shoulders relaxed. Then he blinked and checked his watch, letting go of Harold’s foot. He quickly used the tissues Harold had helpfully provided, tucked himself away and put his clothes back together. Gathered up his belongings, set Harold’s office to rights.

 

“I have to be somewhere five minutes ago, Moreno’s expecting me. But I’ll want to see you soon, Harold. Don’t be a stranger.”

 

“I’ll call you,” Harold promised, and slowly put his head in his hands after John had gone.


End file.
